Burning Bright

Lioe stood on the midships deck, one hand on the rail to balance herself against the motion of the barge. Even four days after the storm had passed, the Water was still a little rough; it would be easier out to sea, Roscha had said, where the currents were less constrained by the complex channels. Overhead, the sky was very blue, utterly free of clouds, and the ghost of one of the moons rode the housetops over Roche’Ambroise. The sun was warm: Burning Bright was moving toward summer, Lioe remembered, and she glanced forward, wondering if she should claim a place under the thin canopy. It was crowded there, full of people in white under the white canopy, and she decided not to join them yet. There were more people in white crowding the docks, Gamers mostly, people from Shadows that she recognized, others that she didn’t know, from the nets and the other clubs. White was the color of mourning on Burning Bright, and Ransome had been well respected. She smoothed the front of her own coat self-consciously, the fabric heavy over a white shirt and her most formal trousers, the breeze cool on her neck and scalp. It felt odd, not to be wearing a hat, but she was no longer a pilot, would have to get used to that. Kerestel had not been pleased, but there were good pilots available through the pools. He would learn to live with it. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Roscha coming toward her, red hair bright in the sun, very vivid against the white coat. Everyone on Burning Bright owns one, Roscha had said. You never know when you’ll need it.

“It’s quite a turnout,” Roscha said, and leaned out over the railing to stare at the crowd on the dock.

Lioe looked with her, saw Medard-Yasine standing with Aliar Gueremei, a handful of Shadows’ staff clustering around them. She had seen Peter Savian earlier, conspicuous in plain Republican shirt and trousers, a white scarf his only concession to local custom; now he was nowhere in sight, but instead, Kazio Beledin stood talking to a tall woman, LaChacalle, and a slim man with a data socket high on his face that caught the light like a diamond. He saw her looking, and lifted a hand in sober acknowledgment. Lioe waved back, not knowing what else to do. LaChacalle had on a white dress under the sheer white coat, and the others wore wide wraps, Beledin’s covering his head like a hood. “So many Gamers,” she said, and Roscha shrugged.

“Everyone knew Ambidexter. They may not have liked him, but they’d kill to get in his games.”

“Not a bad epitaph,” Lioe said. And it’s not just Gamers who feel that way. She looked back toward the group under the canopy, counting the political notables who’d come to Ransome’s funeral. Governor Berengaria, looking remarkably like her image from the parade, stood talking quietly to a man Ransome had pointed out at Chauvelin’s party as the head of the Five Points Bank, while a detachment from the Merchant Investors Syndicate waited for her attention. There were representatives from all of the Five Points Families, Chauvelin had said, and two of the Chrestil-Brisch. She scanned the crowd until she found them. The head of the family, Altagracian— dit Chrestillio, she remembered—was a big man, bigger and more leonine than Damian Chrestil, but the sister, Bettisa, had the same sharp face and fine body. It was a little disconcerting, seeing her there, thin white coat wrapped tight around her body, and Lioe looked away. Chauvelin was nowhere in sight. Probably with the ashes, she thought, and still wasn’t sure how she felt about this ritual, the formal consigning of what was left of Ransome’s body to the seas. Death on Callixte was a private thing, and so were funerals. There was a shout from forward, and the beat of the engines strengthened through the deck. Very slowly, the barge began to pull away from the dock.

“Quinn,” Roscha said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sudden rush of wind. “There’s been some talk.”

Lioe glanced back at her, frowned at the grim look on the other woman’s face. “What about?”

“The fucking Visiting Speaker,” Roscha answered. “I’ve been hearing from people I know up at the port—and other places, pretty much all around—that he’s walking around loose. I thought you said the ambassador was going to deal with him.”

“He was,” Lioe answered. “As far as I know, he is. Are your friends sure it’s ji-Imbaoa?”

She knew it was a stupid question even as she asked, and Roscha grinned. “Not all hsaia look alike. And he’s wearing all the honors. Perii lived on Jericho, she reads hsai ribbons pretty fluently. Oh, it’s him all right.”

“Wonderful,” Lioe said. What the hell is ji-Imbaoa doing free? Chauvelin should be keeping him under lock and key until the next ship leaves for HsaioiAn —